


Lessons On How To Trip The Light Fantastic

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, Gen, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre needs to learn how to dance, so he asks Jehan. Jehan, of course, is an eager and willing teacher to his friend, if extravagant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons On How To Trip The Light Fantastic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercuryhatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/gifts).



> This was written for a fic exchange with Simon. They asked for Jehan teaching Combeferre to dance, and Jehan in a Lolita dress. And so it was written. I had so much fun with this fic!

Combeferre likes to indulge his parents. Despite their upper-class leanings, they’ve never pushed him to be anything he didn't want to be. They've always supported his interests and ambitions. So he likes to make them happy. Even if that means going to this networking and “catching up” party that their neighbours are hosting.

Despite being good at the whole schmoozing thing, he’s never really liked it. And this party will only serve to dunk him deeper into that tub of embarrassed and slightly awkward chatting. He’s been thinking about it for a while now, putting off getting ready for it even though it’s next week. It’s not that it’s stressing him out, it’s just—okay, maybe it is stressing him out. And it’s distracting him from paying attention to this lesson. So there’s something he needs to ask someone. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket it and turns it on, ducking his head to type out a message under the desk.

 _Combeferre:_ Jehan, are you free this evening?

 _Jehan:_ Sure. What can I do for you, my lovely sir?

 _Combeferre:_ Will you teach me how to dance?

 _Jehan:_ May I be so forward as to ask the occasion?

 _Combeferre:_ My parents want me to go to this networking/reunion party thing with them. Knowing the hosts, there will be dancing. And I don’t really know how.

 _Jehan:_ Come over after your classes are done. I’ll be happy to be your instructor :)

When the door of Grantaire and Jehan’s flat swings open three hours later to reveal a grinning Jean Prouvaire in a flowery pink and white Lolita dress with ruffles and a huge bow, Combeferre almost regrets his decision. But the bedecked poet grabs him by the wrist and tugs him inside, letting go to twirl around with a happy sigh, arms flung out in excitement.

“I thought I’d dress up a bit. You know, play the part.”

“You look great.” Combeferre grins. He actually does; the dress fits him perfectly, the open neck exposing his delicate collarbones and pale, freckled neck; the fine blonde hair wisping out of its braid makes him seem like some sort of gender-defying fae.

He follows the prancing romantic into the living room. The flat is homey, but horribly ugly. Combeferre is surprised Courfeyrac can even set foot inside it to see Jehan without style-critiquing his boyfriend's entire living space. Grantaire’s “I don’t care so long as it’s functional” attitude combined with Jehan’s rather alarming tastes have combined with a weirdly harmonic dissonance that makes for some really terrible décor. The living room walls are decorated with Dadaist art prints, a Klimt, a poster of the Vitruvian man, and a framed and crookedly-hung print of Chasseriau’s _The Toilette of Esther_. Grantaire’s stuff has been picked up off the floor and tossed onto the paisley couch with its slouching cushions, and the little wooden coffee table has been pushed to the wall, making a clear space on the ugly orange rug to practice dancing. Jehan starts up some unfamiliar music and holds out a hand.

“We’re going to start with a waltz, because that’s my favourite.” Jehan explains. He takes Combeferre’s left hand in his own and holds it in the air, guiding his right hand to rest against his waist. The ribbons lacing up the back of Jehan’s dress are silky under Combeferre’s fingers. “This one’s really simple. Step forward—” With a gentle tug as a prompt, Combeferre steps forward. “No, with your left foot. There you go. Now to the side—your right. Good. Now back. Now to your left. And forward again. See? It’s like a circle.”

“That…wasn’t very good.”

“Yeah, because we weren’t doing it to any sort of time signature! I was just showing you the steps. Waltzing steps go like this: one-two-three.” He beats out a gentle rhythm on his stocking-clad thigh, swaying a bit. “One-two-three, one-two-three. You can just count out loud if you need to.”

They try again, with Combeferre counting a staccatoed “one-two-three” under his breath. A few more repetitions of the steps, and Jehan is encouraging him to move them about the room instead of staying in one place. They do, circling about the living room until Combeferre is no longer counting under his breath or looking down at his feet, but staring into Jehan’s beaming face.

“Spin me here!” Jehan says gleefully, and Combeferre extends his arm out to allow Jehan to spin beneath it, catching his waist again gently and dipping smoothly back into the 3/4 rhythm. They circle around once again before Jehan jumps backward, clapping his hands and hopping up and down in delight.

“I think he’s got it!” The little poet cries in a surprisingly good rendition of Professor Henry Higgins.

“The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain?” Combeferre tries, without much flourish. Jehan wrinkles his nose and pokes him with two fingers.

“The waltz, silly. Now let’s try foxtrot!”

The resume the same position as before. Combeferre notes that none of the music playing has gone to the beat of what they’ve been practicing, but he’s been so focused on counting and making his feet do the right thing that he hasn’t really noticed.

He and Jehan join hands again, and Combeferre shifts from foot to foot. “What’s this one then? Not too hard?”

“Just slow, slow, quick-quick.” Jehan lets go of his hands, curving his arms in a nearly ballerina-like pose, though it’s obvious he’s mimicking the stance they were just in without a partner, and does a little dance with his feet, ending with a twirl.

“That twirl’s not part of it, I hope?”

“No, but whatever. I like playing around. It makes dancing more fun that way!”

They join hands again and begin to dance, Combeferre muttering “slow, slow, quick-quick” under his breath as Jehan gives him direction on bending his knees more, on stepping forward, to the side, a little march, a little twirl to turn around and circle about the room, flourishing his steps as he does so and encouraging Combeferre to do the same once he stops talking to himself. Combeferre starts to feel the infectious enthusiasm of Jehan’s improvisation, and does his own ducking and weaving and twirling, skipping along to a beat that goes against the music. When the song ends, they’re breathless and laughing. One of Jehan’s little pink bows has come undone on his dress and Combeferre reties it while the poet looks for the next song to play.

“Want to learn swing? Or cha-cha?”

Combeferre laughs. “Jehan, I’ve seen the cha-cha. I _was_ there that night and Courf’s when you all decided to marathon So You Think You Can Dance. The cha-cha might kill me. Let’s go with swing.”

“I thought you weren’t paying attention. You were talking to Enjolras like he was the only human on earth.”

“That’s because he _was_. At least, at that moment. We got sucked in too, after a while.” They'd been trying so hard to ignore the music and action on the television, and the comments from the peanut gallery lined up on the couch, but eventually the excitement of the group and the fascinating grace of the dancers onscreen had captivated them, as well. The cha cha dancers had been amazing but the steps looked far too hard. Combeferre shrugs and steps back to the centre of the room, holding out his hand with a twist of the wrist. “So, swing?”

Jehan flicks his braid—now falling out entirely—back over his shoulder, and presses play on the stereo. This time jazzy saxophone and horn sounds come out of the speakers. They step into position—Jehan had called it ‘basic’—and Jehan gestures with the hand on his shoulder as he speaks drummer against Combeferre’s scapula with two fingers.

“This one is slow, slow, quick-quick like the foxtrot. Only it’s really relaxed and no one really cares what you do.  Just so long as you look like you’re having fun!”

For once, the music goes with the beat of their dance as they step into position. Slow, slow, quick-quick, and Combeferre gets that down quickly. They pull in opposite directions, rock, dip, spin, cross feet with little kicks. They let go and dance around each other, then come together again with a laugh. Jehan loops his left hand over Combeferre’s neck, gripping his shoulder while Combeferre braces his waist to support him. He leaps into the air and allows Combeferre to catch him under his arm, swinging his legs around to sit against his knee before swinging back to land flat-footed on the ground.

“I didn’t know you could do that! Good job!”

Combeferre laughs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, amazed at himself. Apparently he _can_ dance. “Neither did I!”

Jehan heads into the kitchen for a glass of water with Combeferre trailing behind him. The ice water feels good going down Combeferre’s throat, and he dips his fingers in the glass to rub it on the back of his neck to cool down. Jehan jumps up to sit on the counter, drumming his heels against the cupboard, making Grantaire’s bottles of booze clink and rattle. Jehan beams at Combeferre and puts his water down in order to tame his hair back into its braid.

“Maybe I should be your dance partner at this party. We could show those people a thing or two!”

“I don’t think my parents or the hosts would appreciate that.” Combeferre smiles to soften the blow, and Jehan throws him a kiss. He catches it with a grin, used to his affectionate friend's modes of expression. “We could go dancing in the park, just to show off, though.”

“I think we should just keep dancing, right here.” Jehan suggests, and hops off the counter to trot back to the living room, turning on the music again. They step back into position and dance, careless of style or form, jumping from swing to foxtrot to waltz and back again, combining everything together, laughing and skipping and spinning. Jehan twirls so fast, his braid comes undone again and his hair flies free in a golden sheet, fanning out and brushing the floor as Combeferre bends him backward and spins him.

Combeferre finds himself forgetting entirely about the party, infected with Jehan's playfulness. Dancing is something he's never thought himself good at or partial to, but now he's having more fun than he's had in quite a while, with Jehan giggling and leaping about, encouraging him to dance more wildly, to improvise more extravagantly, and Combeferre is loving it.

They dance until Grantaire comes home, rolling his eyes at their antics but playing along for a moment when Jehan grabs his hands and waltzes him round the hallway once, the skirt of his dress flinging out in a circle around him. When Grantaire shuts his bedroom door, Jehan comes back to the centre of the living room and curtsies. Combeferre bows deeply in response. It’s late, and they both have classes the next day, and they’ve been dancing for hours without even noticing the time flying by.

Jehan walks him out, standing at the doorway of his building to wave goodbye with a beaming smile, a pink flush of happy adrenaline still glowing across his cheeks. Combeferre waves back with a smile of his own as he makes his way to the pavement. Dancing with Jehan was the most fun he’s had in a long time, and a voice at the back of his head is babbling excitedly about doing it again. He gets in his car with a smile on his face and pulls out into the street, drumming a three-count beat on his steering wheel. Of course, there’s the problem of knowing how the _real_ dances go. He’ll ask Courfeyrac to give him proper lessons tomorrow.


End file.
